I am the ritual and the worship,
The medicine and the mantra,
The butter burnt in the fire,
And I am the flames that consume it.
—Bhagavad Gita

A barrage of negative thoughts cycled pandemoniously through Ishvari’s mind all through the long night that followed. Like wild elephants on the rampage, she muttered out loud, disgusted by her misery at a time that called for jubilance. Outside, jungle winds moaned and howled, causing arka trees to throw monstrous shadows on the dormitory’s whitewashed walls. By Rudra’s flaming whip, where was Hariaksa?

Her thoughts flew to the night before: she had stood in place after the ceremony and Kairavi, Gandhali and Ikshula had come over to touch foreheads with her. Gitali and Dalaja...

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